Bab El Sama
by Jashi
Summary: Jazira flees her homeland after deadly threats, bound for a new place. America. But paradise isn't what it seems, and through all the toil and hardship, she finds herself thinking of her brief, but meaningful meeting with a certain man...(FxJ)
1. Prologue

BAB EL SAMA

By Jashi

N O T E: 

Frank/Jazira ficcie. I do not own Hidalgo, sadly. Wish I did, vehemently. This chapter is more a prologue than a chapter, and it is divided into little sections. Time passes between each of these sections. Bab el sama actually means something…but you won't find that out until later. ^_~

PROLOGUE

There is no more quiet. I remember silence, the silence of the sands and of the wind in the deep night. The wind spoke in soft caresses and I could not even hear the sounds of my own breath. Everything was still. But now, I cannot remember what the sound of silence is. 

He is with me even now as I pretend to sleep. I hear his breath, so loud and raucous. His name is Gamal, and I am his third wife. Again and again he watches me like this, as though I am plotting against him inside my head as I sleep. 

I will have been his third wife for a year and a half next month. His other two wives are older, and they have daughters. Quiet daughters, daughters that do not speak, that barely breathe. 

I can hear the wind now, outside. Its blowing the sand everywhere, and I hear it batter the sides of the tent. 

…

I search for the silence, the familiar silence that tells me everything is alright again. The silence of the women hiding behind the veils. The silence of the sandstorm creeping across the desert. These are not good silences, but they are familiar and I take comfort in them now that there is hardly any silence to speak of. But they are scarce, and now there is the unfamiliar quiet of my own fear. 

"Why have you not yet conceived?" Gamal's voice is harsh and gritty as though he has swallowed sand. The Arabic he speaks seems to be being carved unto the walls of my brain, such is it's sharpness. 

I only shake my head and say, softly, behind my white, silk veil, "I do not know…"

"How can you not know!?" says he, his eyes flaring as he pushes me down on the bed. 

My fear is now burning in my chest as I breathe shakily and do not answer. Gamal comes closer, his face barely an inch away from mine. I smell his breath; I see the sweat droplets clinging to his eyebrow hair. I wish my veil was made of steel like a cavalry helmet. 

His mouth goes close to my ear, and I feel his breath, sticky and warm, upon it. 

"Jazira," he whispers, and his voice saying my name makes me shake. It is deceptive and kind, but he speaks such awful words. 

"Jazira…if I see blood on your legs again before my first son is born…" His mouth is so close to my ear I feel his tongue upon the lobe, "…I will be forced to kill you."

He bites my ear then, hard, and I cry out in a small, weak-sounding voice that I hate, but it is lost to the silence. I fade like I always do when he does this, into a corner my mind. I am not here. I am among the sand dunes, on a horse, riding far away to a place that I cannot name, but I am happy there. 

…

Somehow, it is quiet now. I'm not sure why, or how, but it comes as I move with great precision. I am thankful for the quiet, for it hides me. It is all my husband hears at the moment as I slip away. 

My things are ready. I packed them yesterday before Gamal got back from the bazaar. It's of good size, since I'm never coming back here. My mother's gown, my saddle blanket…these and other things that I cannot bear to leave behind. As I slip into a servant's dress, a tiny glimmer catches my eye. I wrap the veil about my face and look. It is Gamal's knife. A sliver of it has come out of the scabbard. It is an odd sheen, almost blue. The scabbard is both delicate and harsh at the same time, a beautiful thing, but it's designs are cruel and made to strike fear. I take it and slip it into my bundle. He will miss this. It was a part of my dowry. He might have been planning to kill me with this knife. 

I slip on shoes and walk out of the tent, disguised as a servant girl. 

I do not look back. 


	2. One

BAB EL SAMA

By Jashi

N O T E: I don't own Hidalgo. A bunch of college-educated millionaires do, unfortunately. Sorry that I take so long in updating. Don't hate me. ;_; I craft slowly so the story is better and I can fix mistakes. Also, I apologize if this seems short. 

CHAPTER ONE

I'm in the middle of a terribly long line of people. The wind is harsh today, and it threatens to pull my veil from my head. But I make sure it stays on. There are people here who might recognize me. No doubt they would wonder what Sheikh Riyadh's daughter is doing on a ship bound for America, dressed in a servant's clothes. Even worse, one of the guards standing around this place that lazily watch us, would see me. 

The line moves slow, but it doesn't matter. The dock is very crowded with people and buildings, an odd first sight for a foreigner coming here. They all expect white tents, gruff men with long, tangled black beards and half-naked women walking around with gold bangles around their wrists and desert roses in their hair. They do not think of our customs, our gods, our wisdom, or our horses. They are surprised to see a dock like this.

Yes, you must go deeper to find the true heart of the desert here in Arabia. And that heart is always moving, sifting through the sands, dancing in the sun.

I can just barely see the hills and mountains of the desert sand from here. Memories dawn on me, things I have not thought of in a long, long time. Will I ever return to this place? This place which was my home for so many years?

I have not thought of the fact that I shall never see it again in this lifetime. I cannot come back here, at least as myself. Are there Arabian horses in America? I think of the last time I rode a horse. It has been over a year now. It was on the day before my wedding. I snuck out of the tent to climb upon someone's horse, I did not know whose, actually. I smile as I think of it. I rode off into the night, though only for an hour or so. The sky was so dark, and there was hardly a sliver of moon to see by. The sand whispered softly around the horse's hooves. 

Someone behind me jars me forwards. Apparently the line is moving again. 

It's moving quicker now, and I have to walk to keep up with the person in front of me. My mind races furiously, and I begin to shake. What am I doing? Where am I going?   
Why am I leaving? 

Suddenly the man taking tickets reaches out and pulls it away from my hands. I get pushed forward onto the plank leading up to the ship; it feels as though we are being herded like cattle. 

Minutes pass, and I cannot seem to control myself as I fling myself to the railing, staring out at Arabia, my Arabia. Tears gather in my eyes. Did I ever realize how much I loved this place? 

A white man calls out in a loud and heavy voice, "All aboard!"

The tears are burning my eyes now. Eventually the boat lurches and slowly begins creeping away from the sands. The wind blows harsh again, mocking me because I am running away. I clutch my bundle tightly and the ship cuts the water slowly as it moves.   
I stand there, watching the desert get farther and farther away, hardly blinking. 

And then it is gone. 

Just like that. 

I blinked, and the horizon of flowing sands and quiet winds and running horses had disappeared. 

All that is left is the cold, blue-gray sea. 

I cannot watch it anymore. I go below deck to huddle in a corner. They leave me alone. I fall asleep, my head knocking against a cold, steel wall and all my dreams are filled with freezing water. 

~

Days pass.

That is all they do now. 

They do not linger, they do not rush. They do not come quickly, they do not leave with a goodbye. They come softly and leave without sound. They come without being called, and leave before asking if they may go. I do not notice the days anymore. 

Days and days and days have passed. 

We have stopped at other places, picking up other people from other countries. Those who speak English with rough, round accents, those who speak other languages in a hard, foreign tongue. I am stuck in my place below deck. There are too many people to move around. 

~

I feel stained with the salt of the sea now. I managed to get up today. It started raining and the boat began to rock, but only slightly. I couldn't get back below the deck. A wave snuck up on me and now I feel truly like a trespasser of the sea. Not even the sand leaves such gritty bits and such awful taste. 

~

I have met a friend. He calls himself Joe. He says he hates the sea with all his heart. He is from a place called Ireland, from a town called Kinconney. He leaves for America because he needs a new job. He asks me why I have left my home. I say I that I cannot tell him, and he understands. He asks me why I wear the veil. I cannot tell him this either. He asks me if he could see my face. I say no. There is only one man who has seen my face, and I will keep it this way until I get to America and cannot wear the veil anymore. 

~

Joe asked me about my country today. He is a few years older than I, but he has never seen anything outside Kinconney. It was dark when he asked me, and we had been below deck several days because of the awfulness of a storm. They had not brought us food in a long time. He said he wanted to hear something that would distract him from the way his hunger pained him. I told him about the way the wind blows at night in Arabia, the way it softly caresses you, and you love the wind, even when it becomes a sandstorm and destroys everything. He looked at me afterwards with something in his eyes that I could not name…and he asked me to tell him more about Arabia. But I could not. I was missing the wind, and all I could think of was the bitter way the sea scourged my mouth and I could not remember my Arabia. 

~

They came down today, and told us we are almost to America. About "a fourth" of a way to go, said the sailor. I pull up my bundle to me, and hold it close to me now beneath this deck as the day is gone once again. I cannot move down here, and there is sickness going around. 

~

Joe fell ill today. He asked me if I could tell him a story about Arabia. I told him about our horses, the way they moved like the wind. The way that they seemed to dance instead of running, their glossy coats putting both the moon and the stars to shame. They way when I rode upon one of them, even though there was the ugliness and confines of being forbidden to, I felt so free. I think he understood, Joe. When he died, full of shaking and aches, crying out to some old and forlorn god of Ireland, he knew about my Arabia. Now does he come to _bab-el-sama_, the door of heaven, and he will be happy. I cry as they gently lay him overboard now. The door of heaven is not the sea! Oh, Joe, how will you find heaven in this accursed place you hated? How can you be happy here?

~~~~

To be continued. Hope it wasn't too sad…;_; 


	3. Two

BAB EL SAMA  
  
By Jashi Troasien  
  
N O T E: Wheee! 'Nother update! score one for the J-sizzle Okay, I'll stop scaring all of you now. Thank you all SO MUCH for your kind reviews! They seriously make my day.  
  
Okay, this chapter is REALLY short for a reason. You are supposed to feel something at the end of it.  
  
CHAPTER TWO  
  
When will this dark aching go away? This biting flower, with its jagged, sad tendrils enlacing my heart? This tiny snake, nestled inside my soul in a hidden place I cannot find, gnawing at me with his aciculate teeth? This longing, as though for a long lost lover? They call this homesickness. It is more than a sickness. It is a disease. And it is catching as we draw closer and closer to the "Promised Land".  
  
It's not so awful now on the ship, though. It is not so cold and cramped...sadly. I almost wish that it was cramped and tight, for it would mean less had perished on the way here...  
  
A cry goes up. It is a hoarse, hopeful cry like I have never heard before, in an accent I do not know.  
  
"It's the statue! The statue!"  
  
Gasps emerge from the people around me and people rushed to the other side of the boat. I cautiously follow, clutching my bundle like a frightened child. I peer over a pair of red-headed twins' heads and saw _it_.  
  
_It.  
_  
A tall, tall lady dressed in garments of green, wearing a goddess' crown upon her head...she held a torch, and it was burning stone. I stared, spellbound, just for a moment.  
  
"America..." breathes the lady next to me. Without realizing it she grasps my arm, clutching it tightly, and mutters what sounds like a prayer in a language I do not understand.  
  
I step away from the edge at the spiteful bark of a sailor. I return to the rear of the boat, looking back. When will I stop looking back? When will I realize I have done the right thing?  
  
The wind picks up. It blows fast around me with a quiet whistle. I feel something tugging at my head. I drop my bundle and try to hold on to my veil. Something whispers, whispers quietly, let it go...  
  
The gale pulls the veil from my hair, carrying it far across the sea until it drops into the frigid gray water. It slowly drifts away, a drowning flag of surrender to my home country.  
  
It is a day and a half before we reach America. We land at the dock of Ellis Island, and are herded off the ship like cows for the slaughter. We stand in long lines for hours as medical inspectors come by, prying at our eyelids, looking down our throats, and sizing us up. I watch those who are in front of me who do not pass the tests and are pushed back on to the ship. My heart grieves for them. To come so far, to fight so long, only to be turned away. We wait, and we wait, and we wait. I see people whom I recognize embrace American loved ones, they cry and sob loudly in a relieved foreign tongue.

I see a man who looks like...he looks like my father! Has he come? My heart begins to turn towards him, and then my feet, but I am pushed to the desk of a harassed looking man who asks me many questions.  
  
_What is your name?_  
  
My name is Jazira.  
  
_What is your surname, Jazira?_  
  
...Nasheedat.  
  
_Would you like to change your name, Jazira Nasheedat?  
_  
No.  
  
_What is your age?  
_  
Nineteen.  
  
_Where is your birthplace?_  
  
Arabia.  
  
_Are you married?  
_  
Yes.  
  
_Is your husband with you?_  
  
No.  
  
_Can you read and write?  
_  
Yes.  
  
_Are you ill?  
_  
No.  
  
_Is someone coming to meet you?_  
  
...No.


	4. Three

BAB EL SAMA

By Jashi Troasien

N O T E: Again, I sing the song of old: Hidalgo be not mine. XP gets down on her knees Thank you, thank you, thank you to those who review. I love you all. runs around giving reviewers free pictures of Viggo Mortensen ...This chapter has ethnic slurs. Beware. Beware.

CHAPTER THREE

"Move, ya chit," drawls a man behind me and I am pushed out of the way on a cold cobblestone street. What is this "chit"? It is now just another word to place upon the list of American slang I have yet to learn

I just managed to catch the last ferry to the mainland after I left that place. So now I wander.

It is hard to see the almost-set sun behind the smog.

The streets are not paved with gold.

But Gamal is not here.

That is good, no?

And I am not Jazira, daughter of Sheik Riyadh, daughter of the grand, son-less Sheik.

I am Jazira Nasheedat, and I am in America.

I am in the "land of opportunity".

I walk and walk and walk for what seems like hours. By then the night has grown cold and the streets are nearly bare and I am lost. My feet hurt. I feel like a small child who is full of complaints. I walk into what looks like a deserted alleyway. There is a pile of wooden crates stacked against the wall. I sit next to them, trying to pull my garments around me tighter. The wind is bitter, the stones are cold. It is so cold here in America. I nearly miss the grit and sand that used to be everywhere, that used to get into everything.

I fall asleep in the cold, dreaming of the desert.

I awaken with a jerk to a loud, banging sound. I glance, startled to see a man banging two pots together in a doorway leading out to my alley.

"This ain't a place for you to sleep! Scat, you damn squatter! I keep a clean business!"

Though I do not understand what half of his words mean, I realize from his raucous manner and the growling snarls in his eyes that he wants me to leave. I grab my bundle and shuffle off into the street.

There are so many people.

So many people.

I am jostled and pushed around by the flowing multitudes of them, like I am going against the tide of the sea. I drop my baggage more than once, and I trip more than once over the jagged, uneven cobblestones. People are crying out at me from all sides, yelling at me to "Buy fresh fish, fresh fish, Madame! Freshest in the city!" or scolding children, or gossiping in such loud tones that I hear who...Jane? Jane Mc...Mc...McCracken? Jane McCracken? Who she "slept" with last night. What does it matter who you sleep with? It is just sleeping.

But as the noise escalates into an incredible crescendo of smoke and voices, I am taken for a moment back to the bazaar, where though the people speak a language I can fully understand, they are just as noisy, and just as rowdy as these Americans.

For a moment I am home.

Then I am knocked over by a boy running with a stolen apple. I know this because I can hear the vendor screaming.

I get up, and continue shuffling along. I realize after a few more minutes that I am starving. I drag myself through the people into an alley, and I fall to my knees next to a trashcan, sifting through my bundle quickly and carefully, and as I pull out my little bag of coins, I hear someone yell and it startles me, and I drop the bag. Before I blink, the bag is gone. I run my hands over the ground, whipping my head back and forth. Where is it, where is it? From Arabia to America, one standard holds true: you need money to live. My heart races, what will I do?

After a few moments of thinking, my eye spies a vendor carting red colored cloths down the street.

I must work.

I get up, steeling myself. I walk back out into the street, and wonder where to begin.

I walk.

And I walk.

And I walk.

And I walk.

Finally, I walk in front of a building. A man pushes by me, running in through the doors. I hear his mutter, "I can't do this anymore, I gotta get a job, dammit."

I blink.

Americans get "jobs" here?

I try to remember what this word means, as I have heard it before. Job...job...oh...job means work. I look up at the building, it holds a sign that says "Unemployment Agency".

I go through the doors. There are lines of people at tables. The people behind the tables look very frustrated. The people in the lines look tired and thin. I look around, and I spot a wall covered with tacked-up papers, tiny little clippings of gray paper. I venture over, and look.

WANTED

WAITRESS

AT BLUE RESTAURANT & BAR

GOOD PAY

55th ST.

HOUSEKEEPER

NEEDED TO CLEAN ROOMS

JENKINS' BOARDING HOUSE

107th ST.

So many of these things. After looking at them a while, I realize these are the mysterious "jobs" Americans so desire. I pluck off the one that says "WAITRESS" and the one that says "HOUSEKEEPER". I'm not sure what either means, but I shall see.

It is in the late afternoon that I finally find my way to the Blue Restaurant and Bar. I gently knock at the door in what I think is a polite manner. After several minutes of knocking, a woman, tall, with curly hair and a large nose opens the door.

"What the hell are you doin'?"

I smile meekly. "Ah...My name is Jazira Nasheedat...I am here for job."

"For the job?" She looks me up and down, eyes small and bitter. She laughs. "Hey, Jack, think this one'll work?" She beckons me to step in.

The room is dirty and smoky, with mostly men talking in quiet, angry voices at tables. Many are sipping beer up at the counter, and the man working there peers up over their dark, scruffy heads to look at me.

"What's the name?"

"Jazira Nasheedat."

"Ja---what?"

I clear my throat and make my voice louder. "Ja-zi-ra Na-Shee-Dat!"

The bar becomes quiet for a moment. Men turn to look at me. Nervousness begins to climb up the back of my throat.

"...I am here...for job..." I say, my voice so much quieter than I want it to be...I want it to be loud, like a raging wind that will knock the chairs over and give me their respect.

The man steps out from behind the counter, approaching me.

"You an immigrant?"

I nod.

"Where from?"

"...Arabia."

He pauses, then sticks his face in mine and I jump back. His breathe is rancid, his eyes are wild, his hands are free and linger in the air like branches...like...like...Gamal.

"Listen, lady, we don't let no immigrants work for us. Especially not any sand niggers from faraway deserts." He spits on my shoe. "Leave."

The woman pulls me out by the shoulder and pushes me out on the street, chuckling as though I am some sort of joke. My cheeks burn. I am only a woman, once again, pushed around by a man to do what he wants. I am made to leave the building, pushed away and labeled something I do not understand...though I know it is not a complement. I am only a foreigner here, am I? I think I am a foreigner everywhere.

Even in my own country.

Even in America.


End file.
